The Londoners (34 page)

Gentian-blue eyes met his.

‘It’s Miss Voigt,’ she said steadily, the huge mound of her belly even more apparent now that she had taken off her coat. ‘I’m not married and I never have
been.’

It took a lot to disconcert Leon but stunned surprise did so now. Kate Voigt looked a lot of things; beautiful, warm-hearted, unconventional. But she didn’t look the kind of young woman to
find herself in what was, for women, the oldest kind of trouble possible. His thoughts immediately went to the photograph on the mantelpiece.

As if reading them she said, and this time her voice was not quite so steady, ‘My fiancé was killed at Dunkirk. He was a fighter pilot. His name was Toby. Toby Harvey.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, hating the total inadequacy of his words.

She gave a slight, almost infinitesimal shrug of her shoulders. He knew that she was not dismissing his sympathy. She was simply refusing to descend to the level of a trite, conventional
response; a response that would be as totally inadequate as his words of sympathy had been.

A chill went through him as, for the first time, he realized just how alone she was. She hadn’t said so, but he was certain that her mother was dead, her father was in an internment camp
and the father of her expected child was buried in a makeshift grave on the other side of the English Channel. No wonder her friend, Charlie, had been so concerned at the thought of her taking into
her home a war-injured sailor she knew absolutely nothing about.

As she handed him his mug of tea he said awkwardly, ‘I appreciate you helping me out of a tight spot with lodgings over Christmas, Miss Voigt, but perhaps . . . under the circumstances . .
. it might be best if I looked for somewhere else to board once Christmas is over.’

She picked her mug of tea up from off the tray and sat down in one of the comfortable-looking armchairs. She was wearing a navy-blue maternity dress, the material obviously salvaged from some
other garment in order that her precious clothing coupons could be set aside for baby clothing. The material was warm and serviceable and that was all that could be said in its favour. It should
have looked dowdy, but it didn’t. She had embroidered small crimson rosebuds on the collar and the dark colour of the dress merely emphasized the pale goldness of her hair and the stunning
blueness of her black-lashed eyes.

‘Are you being protective of my reputation?’ she asked, and the bitterness in her soft, husky voice was so unexpected that it sent a fresh shock vibrating through him. ‘If so,
it’s very thoughtful of you, but you’re wasting your time. I don’t have a reputation to protect.’

Without being able to stop himself, his eyes moved down from her face to the ripe roundness of her belly.

‘And it’s not only because of the baby,’ she said, putting his thoughts into words for him. ‘The vast majority of my neighbours have had nothing to do with me since my
father was interned. They seem to have taken his internment as proof that he was a German spy or fifth columnist.’

The pain in her voice was so raw he felt his scalp tingle. ‘My having an illegitimate baby is merely the icing on the cake. If you’re worried about loss of reputation,
I
should be warning
you.
Once it’s known you’re lodging here, you’ll be treated by my neighbours as if you’ve moved into the
Reichstag.
’

‘I think that’s a slander I can cope with,’ he said equably.

Something in the easy tone of his voice banished all her remembered slights and hurts. She had come to terms with them all long ago. There was no point in reliving them now, especially on
Christmas Eve.

Her mouth tugged into a self-deprecating smile. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound quite so burningly resentful. It’s just that for twenty years my father believed himself to be
part and parcel of the local community. And then, almost overnight, he became an outcast. Instead of being Carl Voigt or Mr Voigt, he became a Jerry; a Kraut; a Boche. As I have. And though common
sense tells me I should shrug off the name-calling, it’s not so easy to do. It’s too hurtful. It’s too . . .’ she sought for the word that summed up all the loneliness the
name-calling had caused her. ‘It’s too isolating.’

He was still standing, looking down at her, deep understanding in his dark brown eyes. ‘I know,’ he said simply.

Her eyes held his, the most peculiar sensation surging through her. He wasn’t just being politely sympathetic. He really did know.

She remembered the conversation she had overheard between Miss Helliwell and Miriam. ‘Though how a billeting officer could be so insensitive as to give a Magnolia Square address to a black
man, I really don’t know,’ Miss Helliwell had said, genuine bewilderment in her voice. ‘There must be plenty of his own kind down near the docks. Why doesn’t he try
there?’ And in The Swan, as the two of them had left together, Albert had said disbelievingly, ‘If that don’t beat the band. Wait till I tell them at home that Kate Voigt’s
taken a darky in as a lodger.’

The isolating phrase ‘his own kind’ and the word ‘darky’ were expressions he was quite obviously all too familiar with. And no doubt he was familiar with other, even more
derogatory expressions; ‘a touch of the tar brush’, ‘half-caste’ and ‘half-breed’.

It was a strange realization, knowing that she was in the company of someone who quite genuinely knew the depth of hurt and isolation such prejudiced and insulting name-calling occasioned.
Harriet Godfrey and Ellen Pierce were sincere in their deep outrage whenever they heard either herself or her father referred to in disparagingly racialist terms, but no matter how genuine their
indignation and sympathy, they didn’t
know
how it felt to be at the receiving end of such abuse. The young man now standing on her hearthrug and looking down at her with empathy in
his gold-flecked eyes most certainly did know.

‘Does one ever get used to it?’ she asked quietly, knowing that he was well aware of the realization she had come to; that she knew how he suffered in a similar, though far worse,
way.

‘No, Miss Voigt,’ he said candidly, his eyes continuing to hold hers. ‘You learn how to cope with it, but you never get used to it.’

It was odd to hear someone she felt she already knew so well addressing her so formally. ‘Please call me Kate,’ she said, knowing instinctively that, even if she hadn’t been so
heavily pregnant, he wouldn’t mistake her friendliness for forwardness and take it as licence to make a sexual pass at her. ‘Being referred to as Miss Voigt makes me feel as middle-aged
as a couple of friends of mine, Harriet and Ellen. Because they are so much older than I am it was years before I began calling Harriet anything other than Miss Godfrey and it was months before I
began using Ellen’s christian name.’

He grinned, his crutch still propped under one arm, the mug in his free hand. ‘I don’t think the same situation applies here, does it? I’m twenty-six and I’m pretty sure
I must be at least four or five years older than you.’

A smile quirked the corners of her mouth. ‘I’m twenty-three. Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to sit down? Or do you want to see the rooms and choose one
before you sit down?’

‘If it’s all right with you, I think I’d like to see the rooms. It’s a long time since I sat down in comfort in front of a fire and when I do, I don’t think
I’m going to want to move again in a hurry. Not unless we’re unlucky enough to have a raid.’

Kate put her mug of tea back down on the tray and, hampered by the bulk that was the baby, rose a little lumberingly to her feet. ‘I’ll show you the rooms and when we come back
downstairs I’ll put the wireless on. It’s a better warning than the sirens of an approaching raid. As soon as enemy aircraft cross the Kent coastline the volume reduces to next to
nothing.’

‘And what do you do then?’ he asked as, Hector still at his heels, he began to follow her from the room.

‘I make a Thermos of tea, grab a blanket, cushion, book, gas-canister and tin helmet and sit it out in the Anderson.’

‘Alone?’ he asked, as they reached the hall and he picked up his kit-bag.

‘No.’ She flashed him a sunny grin. ‘With Hector. When it comes to air raids he’s the biggest coward going. He’s always first in and last out!’

Chuckling, he followed her up the stairs, negotiating them with admirable dexterity considering his handicaps of a heavy kit-bag and crutch.

‘This is my father’s room,’ she said, opening a door to reveal a bed fully made-up, snowy linen sheets turned back over a crisp, white bedspread. There was a bedside table with
a bookstand and books on it, an alarm-clock and lamp. The wardrobe, tallboy and dressing-table were walnut; the carpet was imitation Persian, patterned in deep wines and sea blues. It was a room
polished and dusted as if its occupant had only just vacated it and was due to return at any moment. Knowing how long it had been since her father had last slept in it, knowing that she had no idea
of how long it would be before he returned, he found the housewifely care she still lavished on the room deeply moving.

‘I think I’d be happiest not moving into your dad’s room,’ he said, wondering what it would be like to have a daughter or a wife or a mother who cared so much for him
that she would keep his room in such a constant state of readiness for his homecoming. ‘You said you had another two rooms free. Either of them would suit.’

‘One is used as a lumber-room,’ Kate said, moving further down the pleasantly wide landing. ‘Though I don’t suppose that will cut much ice with the council billeting
officer when he comes to call!’

Moving past a bathroom, she opened another door. ‘This is the other spare room. It isn’t quite as comfortably furnished as Dad’s room but you can see the Heath from the
window.’

Leon, accustomed since early childhood to the barrack-like dormitory of an orphanage and then in later years, before he joined the Navy, to a string of soulless, cheerless lodging-rooms, thought
it looked exceedingly comfortably furnished. In fact, he thought it looked like a little corner of paradise.

There was a larger than average-sized single bed covered with a plump blue eiderdown. There was a comfortable-looking armchair near the window. There was a wickerwork bedside table and a
table-lamp with a sunflower-yellow shade. There were colourful rag rugs scattered on the floor. A white-painted wardrobe stood against one wall, a matching dressing-table against another. There
were shelves in an alcove laden with books and a bowl of pot-pourri on the window-ledge.

‘I’m afraid it’s a little spartan,’ Kate said doubtfully. ‘There isn’t a heater in here and there’s not much drawer-room.’

‘I’m a sailor,’ he reminded her with his easy, infectious grin, vastly amused by her concept of spartan. ‘I’m used to keeping all my belongings ship-shape and tidy
in less space than a mouse could turn in. This is the most drawer-space I’ve had in years.’

He swung his kit-bag to the floor. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be here,’ he said, aware that she hadn’t thought to ask. ‘As soon as I’m declared fit for
active service I’ll be off. It might be two months. It might be longer.’

‘Two months?’ Her eyes widened. ‘How can you possibly imagine you’ll be fit for active service in two months? You can only walk with the help of a crutch!’

‘I can only walk
now
with the help of a crutch,’ he said, a note of steel-hard determination entering his voice. ‘Give me another two weeks and I’ll have thrown
it on the wood-pile. And another few weeks after that and I’ll be almost as good as new.’

Without knowing exactly how he had been injured Kate could hardly contradict him but she privately thought he was being highly optimistic. She was also suddenly aware of how closely they were
standing together; of how small the bedroom was.

‘I’ll go back downstairs and put the wireless on,’ she said, not wanting him to think she was being deliberately provocative; not wanting anything to spoil the easy
friendliness that had sprung up so naturally and quickly between them. ‘As it’s Christmas Eve I might be able to tune in to a carol service.’

As if, again, sensing her thoughts he took a step or two further into the bedroom, increasing the distance between them. ‘I’ll be stowing my gear away,’ he said with an
easiness that robbed the moment of even the slightest hint of tension. ‘I have some rum if you want to add it to your Christmas pudding.’ His wide smile once again split his dusky face.
‘Or, as it’s Christmas, you can pour a tot into your next cup of tea!’

Instead of being the loneliest Christmas of her life, it turned out to be a Christmas full of teasing and laughter. Pretending to be appalled that she hadn’t troubled to
put up any Christmas decorations, Leon rectified the situation by borrowing a pair of her father’s secateurs and, aided by his crutch, disappeared into the night. When he returned he did so
with his free arm hugging several branches of red-berried holly.

‘I noticed your neighbour’s holly tree earlier on,’ he said, laying his bounty on the table in high satisfaction. ‘I thought at the time your neighbour was a fool for not
having taken advantage of it. It would have sold for threepence a branch in Lewisham High Street.’

‘Which neighbour?’ Kate asked, giggles rising in her throat. ‘Left-hand side or right-hand side?’

‘Left-hand side. If it’s someone you’re particularly friendly with they won’t mind and if it isn’t, it doesn’t matter very much, does it?’

Her neighbour next door down was Mr Nibbs. ‘It doesn’t matter very much,’ she said, giving vent to her giggles. ‘Where shall we put the holly? Over the picture
frames?’

‘And the mirrors. And don’t forget the Christmas pudding. You’ll need a tiny piece for the top of that.’ A look of alarm flashed across his good-natured face. ‘You
have got a Christmas pudding, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. I made one because I thought the two friends I spoke to you about earlier might be spending Christmas with me. As it is, Harriet has volunteered to stay on call as an
ambulance-driver and Ellen has taken too many bombed-out animals into her care to be able to leave them.’